The Thing About the Truth (2 page)
Read The Thing About the Truth Online
Authors: Lauren Barnholdt
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Designed by Karina Granda
The text of this book was set in Cochin.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barnholdt, Lauren.
The thing about the truth / by Lauren Barnholdt.
p. cm.
Summary: In this story told from alternating viewpoints, seventeen-year-old Kelsey seeks to redeem her formerly flawless reputation with the help of a senator’s sexy but arrogant son, who has ulterior motives.
ISBN 978-1-4424-3460-8 (hardcover)
[1. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.B2667Th 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011034799
ISBN 978-1-4424-3462-2 (eBook)
To the real Kelsey,
who always reads the last page first
Thank you, thank you, thank you to:
Jennifer Klonsky, my amazing editor, for her brilliant insight and unwavering support.
Alyssa Eisner Henkin, for being the best agent a girl could ask for.
My mom and my sisters, for being my best friends.
Jessica Burkhart, Kevin Cregg, and Scott Neumyer, for always being there.
And Aaron, my husband, for grounding me, encouraging me, loving me, and making me a better person—I love you, AG.
the thing about
the truth
Office of the Superintendent, 11:26 a.m.
Kelsey
I am in so much trouble. So, so, so much trouble. Seriously, I cannot even begin to
imagine
the kind of trouble I’m in. It’s the kind of trouble you hope you’re never going to be in, the kind of trouble you hear people talk about, and you go,
“Wow, what an idiot. I’m glad I’m never going to be in that kind of trouble.”
I’m probably going to get kicked out of school. My second school in three months. What will happen to me then? Where will I even go? The last school I got kicked out of was Concordia Prep, a private school, so of course I got put into public school. But where do you go when you get kicked out of public school? Reform school or something?
God, that would be horrible. I could never last at a reform
school. I have a pink Kate Spade purse, for God’s sake. I got it at the Kate Spade outlet, but still. Reform school would eat me alive. I’d be like one of those girls on those shows on Spike TV, where they take the teen troublemakers and put them in jail for a day to show them where they’re headed, and they all break down and start crying and completely lose their shit.
I shift in my chair and look at the clock: 11:27. The meeting with the superintendent, Dr. Ostrander, is supposed to start in three minutes, and Isaac still isn’t here. Not that I’m surprised. Isaac is never on time to anything.
The clock’s hand ticks over to 11:28, and I start to think that maybe he’s not coming. That maybe somehow his dad got him out of it, and that I’m going to be left dealing with this mess on my own.
But then the door to the office opens, and Isaac walks in. His dark eyes scan the room, moving over the secretary, taking in the closed door that leads to Dr. Ostrander’s office, and then finally landing on me. Without even talking to the secretary or telling anyone he’s there, he walks over and plops himself down in the chair two down from me.
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his gaze facing forward. I sneak a look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s wearing pressed khaki pants, a light blue button-down shirt, and a red-and-blue tie. His black shoes are perfectly shined, his hair freshly gelled. He looks put together, in control, and, as always, completely gorgeous. There’s a slight scowl on his face, but it only serves to make him look more in charge of the situation,
like he can’t believe what a total waste of time this whole thing is.
He turns to look at me, and when he does, he catches
me
looking at
him,
and my heart stops.
“Hey,” I say. I’m not sure if we’re talking, but the word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Hey.” His tone is clipped. He’s still mad at me for what happened, still hurt, still upset. Still probably doesn’t want to give me another chance.
“I was starting to think you weren’t going to come,” I say. It’s a lame thing to say, but I’m desperate to keep the conversation going.
“Why wouldn’t I come?” He looks like he thinks I’m crazy for doubting he would show up.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe your dad . . .”
He rolls his eyes and looks away.
“Anyway,” I say, “I’m glad you’re here.”
He doesn’t reply, just pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. His fingers move over the screen, checking his texts, reading something, typing a reply. I wonder who he’s texting with. Marina? Doubtful, but honestly, at this point, nothing would surprise me.
“Mr. Brandano, Ms. Romano?” the secretary says. “Dr. Ostrander will see you now.” I take a deep breath and stand up. I smooth my skirt, a simple black pencil skirt chosen in an effort to make me look mature and trustworthy.
“Here we go,” I say to Isaac, and flash him a smile. It’s
an attempt to show that we’re in this together, that we’re both heading into the lion’s den, but that maybe we can be okay if we just depend on each other.
But Isaac doesn’t say anything. He just turns on the heel of his superexpensive, supershiny black shoe and walks toward Dr. Ostrander’s office door. I stand there for a moment, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill down my cheeks.
I’m upset because Isaac won’t talk to me, but mostly I’m upset because I know that this whole thing is my fault. The reason we might get kicked out of school. The reason everything’s so completely screwed up. And most of all, the reason we broke up. The reason I’ve probably lost him forever.
I’ve spent so many hours thinking about it, going over it again and again in my mind. If I start doing that now, I’ll drive myself crazy, letting my thoughts become a tangled mess. And I need to keep my mind clear for this meeting. So I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand and then force myself to head into Dr. Ostrander’s office.
Kelsey
So, my first day at Concordia Public is definitely not off to a great start. First, I spilled orange juice all over the skirt I was wearing. Which was bullshit, since (a) I don’t usually even eat breakfast, and (b) I don’t even really like orange juice. But this morning when I came downstairs, my dad insisted that I “get something in my stomach” so that I would have energy for my first day at my new school. So I choked down a piece of dry toast and a glass of orange juice, mostly just to please him (that’s a whole other story—the doing it just to please him part), and then I spilled it on my skirt. And I had no time to change before the bus came.
Which was another thing. The bus. Riding the bus, in case
you don’t know, really sucks. But I don’t have a license yet (I’m seventeen, but I’ve failed my driver’s test twice—fingers crossed, though, for my next try!), and there was no way my parents were going to give me a ride to school. They were trying to teach me a lesson, I think. Which makes no sense. How was not driving me to school causing me to learn a lesson? I already learned my lesson when I got kicked out of my old school.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to make some new friends quickly. New friends who won’t mind picking me up in the morning.
But so far, the prospects at Concordia Public are not looking very promising.
I’m sitting in the guidance office, waiting to have a meeting with my guidance counselor so I can get my schedule and locker combination, and no one here looks even remotely like potential new friend material. I mean, the girl sitting next to me has pink hair and five piercings in each ear. Which is fine. I might be preppy, but I’m not, like,
discriminatory
or anything.
I can be friends with people who have piercings. Not that I ever really have before, but I have nothing against it. I love piercings. I have two in each ear, even. But it’s the girl’s bag that’s the real problem. It’s a camouflage print. Which again, whatever. Not my style, but fine. But what
isn’t
fine is the patch that’s sewn on the front. It says
KILL ALL PREPS.
I
might not be prejudiced, but she definitely is. I quickly move my Prada shoes (borrowed from my friend Rielle) farther under my chair.
The irony of the whole thing is that I kind of feel the same way she does. Preps do kind of suck. But at my old school, Concordia Prep, everyone was preppy. (Haha, preps at a prep school, big surprise, right?)
Anyway, I was a scholarship student, so I was always trying to make sure I fit in. And that meant having Kate Spade purses and Prada shoes. Even when I couldn’t afford it, I would—
The door to the office opens and a boy walks in. Dark blond hair. Sparkling white sneakers. Perfectly faded jeans. He walks with a swagger, the kind that comes from years of being confident. You can’t teach a walk like that. Trust me, I’ve tried to cultivate one. It’s impossible.
I make a mental note to stay away from him. He’s probably the most popular guy in school, the kind who’s mean to everyone, the kind who, for some inexplicable reason, has all the girls wanting him. Why are girls like that, anyway? They’re always falling for the jerks. Which is ridiculous. Not that I don’t have experience when it comes to that kind of thing.
I mean, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t fallen in love with a jerk. A jerk is the reason I got kicked out of my old school.
But I’ve learned my lesson.
I look over at the girl next to me, and she’s practically falling out of her chair, that’s how bad she wants this guy. Poor thing. She doesn’t know what she’s in for. And besides, I thought she hated all preps. I guess it doesn’t apply to hot male preps with perfect hair and perfect—
Mr. Popular is speaking.
“Hello,” he says to the secretary, leaning over the desk. “I’m Isaac Brandano. It’s my first day, and I was told to come to the office and pick up my schedule.”
I almost choke on the peppermint latte I’m drinking. It’s this guy’s first day? And he’s walking like
that
?
“Yes, Mr. Brandano,” the secretary says, all friendly. She gives him a smile. When I came in here, she totally scowled at me and acted like I was making her day into a big debacle. “Here you go.” She hands him a schedule. What, he doesn’t have to sit here and take a meeting with his guidance counselor like everyone else?
Ohmigod. Probably only the rejects who got kicked out of their old schools need to have meetings with their guidance counselors. How humiliating.
Mr. Popular thanks her, then turns toward the door, his eyes running down over his schedule. He frowns slightly, probably because he can’t believe they would dare to put him in math or something.
He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. His are dark and slightly brooding, the color of chocolate, and I feel my heart skip a beat. I mean, I’m only human.